Killer Curbs
by PuffPiece
Summary: Sidewalk: 1. Dean's ankle: 0.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: I'm still working on Head Over Wheels; the voices in my head just wanted this one to happen first. (They say "Hi" by the way!)

Dean's walking innocently down the street, minding his own business. Well, he's actually minding the backside of a hot young blonde. And it's a pretty nice view, if he does say so himself. Poured-on jeans, legs that go on forever. He catches her eye as she walks past, giving her his patented Dean Winchester wink, and then halfway turns to follow her progress as she continues on past him.

The fact that he's dangerously close to the edge of the curb doesn't even register in his otherwise occupied man-brain. Not like he's in danger of getting struck by a car if he steps off the sidewalk in this sleepy little town.

But said curb has its own set of perils.

He's still smirking as he watches her walk away when the sidewalk suddenly ends, the curb giving way to a several inch drop his right foot isn't expecting. While his foot searches for its next landing, his arms pinwheel briefly through the air and his attention turns from the blonde to his own predicament.

 _Shit._

He feels a couple of pops as his right ankle rolls over on itself, immediate pain replacing any other coherent thought as he takes a rather inelegant nosedive to the unforgiving asphalt.

When he finally opens his eyes, he finds himself laying on his back, half on and half off the sidewalk, the blonde's face hovering in his line of vision.

"Are you okay?" she asks, concern replacing the previous look of interest she'd shot him on her way past just seconds before his not so graceful tumble.

He throws on a confident smile, trying to cover the embarrassment lurking just beneath the surface. "Yeah, I'm good. Just enjoying the view."

He's not technically lying; he is, in fact, enjoying the view of her face. Nor is he telling the complete truth. Because he's not at all sure he can actually get up. Not without falling flat on his ass, anyway. But he doesn't want anyone around to witness it if that turns out to be the case.

"You sure?" she asks, a dubious look replacing the former look of concern.

"Yep," Dean says with more confidence than he actually feels, waving her off with a casual movement of his hand. He works carefully to get himself semi-upright, hoists himself into a seated position on the curb while giving her a reassuring smile. "Nothing to see here."

"Okay," she says under her breath, shaking her head as she turns and walks away.

Not having lost his vision in his tumble, he appreciates her backside for a second time, then breathes a sigh of relief when she turns the corner. He slowly flexes his ankle, rolls it around a little and lets out another breath when it doesn't feel too terrible. Feels like any other of the innumerable sprains he's had over the years.

His thought changes quickly, however, when he pushes himself to his feet and begins to put pressure on his right leg. He lets out a little hissed half-laugh/half-scream that makes him thankful he sent the blonde on her way before she got wind of that rather unmanly expression. The pain holds him hostage, trapped and immobile as he tries to figure out how to get out of this mess while keeping the weight off of his injured limb.

His task had been simple: drive into town, pick up the herbs from the semi-shady "Nature" store Bobby had asked them to visit on the way back from their last hunt, and then pick Sam back up from the library. Sam had argued that he wouldn't be long, just needed to locate a rare book he'd found online through something Sam called an "interlibrary loan", but Dean had wanted no part of his brother's geeked out endeavors.

And so now he stands, by himself, in the middle of the empty sidewalk, working up the nerve to begin the rather arduous two block journey back to the Impala, the thoughts of Sam and his herbal recovery mission long-forgotten.

He groans as he gives his ankle another chance to redeem itself, can't even make it a full step before he has to get his weight off of it. He casts another furtive look around before beginning to hop his way back to the car, has to stop midway down the block in order to catch his breath, keeping his balance by holding onto the brick building on his right. He re-evaluates his situation once his breathing has fallen back into a normal rhythm, settling into a more manageable although much more painful mode of ambulation for the rest of his journey: for every abbreviated limping step he takes with his right foot, he takes two hops on his left, stopping every few feet to try to breathe through the pain that threatens to steal the remaining air from his lungs.

"Come to daddy," Dean groans out, gratefully splaying himself over the top of the car's driver side roof while he tries to get himself back under control. After a few minutes of slow deep breathing, he carefully works his way into the driver's seat, resting his head against the steering wheel before starting the car.

He's not looking forward to the drive back to their motel room; it's only a couple of miles, but the thought of stepping on the gas and brake pedals with his right leg makes his stomach clench. He briefly considers driving with his left foot instead, then figures he'd rather deal with the pain in his right than endanger his car with his less coordinated left.

By the time he gets himself back into their room, he's pasty white, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, right leg trembling with each limping step he has to take. He sinks onto his bed where he prays the Excuse Fairy will bless him with a better story for his brother than what actually happened.

It doesn't.

()o()o()o()o()

"Dean, what the hell man?" Sam asks, slamming the door behind him as he enters the motel room. "You were supposed to pick me up over an hour ago."

Dean doesn't move, just grunts out from underneath the arms he's got covering his face.

Sam spares a glance at where his brother's lying on the bed, fails to notice the sheen of sweat gracing his forehead and the albino tint of his skin as he focuses instead on his own ire. "Come on, let's get something to eat. I'm starving. Let's go," Sam growls, smacking Dean's still booted right foot as he passes by, an annoyed gesture to get his brother's ass in gear.

Dean lets out a strangled cry, arms moving from his face to grip the sides of the bed as he pants through the pain.

"What'd I…" Sam trails off, takes in his brother's change in countenance and narrows his eyes. "What'd you do?" he tries again, the initial defensive tone replaced by one of suspicion.

Dean's breathing gradually slows as the jarring of his ankle becomes a more distant memory and he finally cracks open his right eye and gives Sam a tenuous smile.

"I hit a snag?" Dean asks more than states. He has yet to come up with something that won't allow Sam endless mocking rights for the near (and likely far distant) future.

"Care to elaborate?" Sam asks, inching closer to the end of Dean's bed.

Dean eyes him warily, already anticipating his brother's next move. "Not really."

Sam rolls his eyes and sets to work on triaging his brother. Dean had managed to untie his right boot but didn't get any further – the amount of swelling already present necessitated more shimmying than Dean could manage on his own. Sam gently eases off Dean's boot and sock, Dean deep breathing his way through the maneuvers, eyes again hidden behind his arms, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white.

"Ow. Shit. Stop," Dean pants, trying to draw his leg away from Sam's prying fingers when his brother starts to prod his ankle. Sam just keeps a firm grasp on the middle of his brother's calf, well above his ankle, eyeballing the purple basketball that's replaced the lower portion of his brother's leg.

He lets out a low whistle, impressed by the swelling and coloration that's already evolved. "How'd you get back here? Did you walk on this? Did you drive on this?"

"Had to," Dean says weakly, regaining his breath now that Sam's stopped poking his angry ankle.

"Why didn't you call me?"

Why indeed? Dean couldn't very well tell his brother that he was too busy trying not to pass out from the pain. And then, by the time he'd gotten back to the motel and remembered Sam, he'd been busy trying to come up with a cover story. And driving back out to the library for his brother was not as high on his priority list as not fainting like a girl.

"Well," says, Sam, standing up decisively, "let's go."

"Go where?"

"To get this checked out, dumbass."

"It's just a sprain," Dean says, working his way upright, propping himself against the headboard of the bed. "It just needs a day or two."

Sam eyes his brother, weighing Dean' pain tolerance against his stubborn streak, and knows that he'd probably make the same argument if their roles were reversed. And given the location of the tenderness and swelling he has to admit that it's more likely a sprain than a break, in which case a day or two will hopefully make a huge improvement.

So instead of arguing further, he makes short work of getting Dean's ankle ACE wrapped, propping it up on a couple of pillows and placing a hastily gathered bag of ice over top. He plucks Dean's keys off the bedside table, returning with take-out and a pair of aluminum crutches he picked up at a thrift store on the outskirts of town.

He's seriously considering just keeping a spare pair along with a shoulder sling in the trunk. Lord knows it would save them money in the long run.

()o()o()o()o()

Sam's given Dean's ankle a fair trial. Has given it the requisite 48 hours to figure out how bad it is. Sam's now kicking himself for not insisting on taking his brother to get it checked out sooner. He's tried, but not hard enough. Every time he brings it up, Dean just says it needs a little more time. Says it's feeling better. But Sam's eagle eye has taken in the way his brother continues to cringe every time he tries to put pressure on his ankle, still can't take a full step before letting out a curse and shifting the weight over to his left leg.

"Come on man," Sam says. "We've gotta get that ankle looked at."

"It'll be fine. Just needs a little time."

"Dean. It's been two days. And you still can't walk on it."

"What do you call this?" Dean asks, gesturing to himself. He's propped up on his crutches, making a valiant effort at trying to approximate being mobile.

Sam gives his brother a leveled glance and holds out his hand. "Fine. Give me the crutches."

Dean purses his lips and narrows his eyes at his brother's dirty play. He straightens his shoulders and shifts his position, carefully balancing himself before handing over his main source of mobility.

Sam grabs them away and then stalks to the other side of the room, leans them against the wall next to him, crossing his arms as he leans against the motel room door. "Okay. Now walk over to me."

Dean eyeballs his current predicament, takes in the length of the room between himself and Sam. On a normal day it'd take him about four strides to reach his brother. But right now? They could be here all day. He clenches his teeth and takes a deep breath, steeling himself to cross the longest motel room ever.

He really hasn't been putting much pressure on his right leg up to this point, has been using the crutches exclusively to get around, and hopes to God that the fact that he's stayed off of it for the past 48 hours has magically healed it.

It hasn't.

Sam quirks an eyebrow at him, daring him to show him how "fine" he is.

Dean shifts his weight to his left leg, takes a deep breath, and attempts to take a step with his right foot. He gets about half of his weight on it before he's forced to take a couple of stutter-hops with his left foot, reaching out to hold onto the wall to balance himself the rest of the way.

"Shit," he breathes out, the pain stealing away any more eloquent thoughts.

"Any day now, Hopalong," Sam says, bland expression on his face.

Dean shoots a scowl at his brother, followed closely by the extension of the middle finger of the hand not holding himself upright. He gives his ankle another try, comes up with the same result, and lets out a growl of frustration.

"Can we go now?" Sam asks, eyebrow cocked to the ceiling.

Dean just hangs his head, shoulders dropping in resignation.

Sam's countenance changes immediately from hard-ass to concerned brother now that Dean's agreed to get medical attention, and he crosses the room in a couple of his gigantor steps, rapidly giving the crutches back to his brother and ushering him over to the bed.

The brothers have a brief argument over Dean's footwear, Dean insisting Sam help him get the boot on his right foot, Sam insisting that he doesn't need it since he's not walking on it anyway. Sam wins, but only after a couple of attempts at getting the boot back on bring Dean to the brink of hyperventilation. The swelling and bruising have gone down but the tug and wiggle it takes to get the boot in place are more than he can handle.

()o()o()o()o()

"When did this happen?" the doctor at the clinic asks Dean, taking in the bruising that's graduated from blue-purple to a more vivid green discoloration.

Dean shrugs from his seat on the exam table and replies, "Two days ago."

"And you didn't come in until now because….?"

Sam can't very say "Because my brother's a dumbass", but he's thinking it.

Dean throws a glance at Sam, warning him verbally against any "I told you so's" and holds fast to his mantra. "I thought it would get better".

Dean fares better with the doctor's exam than he did with Sam's initial exploration, but the doctor expresses concern given his continued inability to put much pressure on it and the amount of abnormal motion his right ankle allows compared to his left. The x-rays are negative but the doctor diagnoses him with a Grade 3 sprain, explaining that he's completely torn several of the ligaments that should be holding his ankle together without actually breaking any bones.

Dean's initial relief and consideration of telling Sam where he can stick his WebMD doctor's degree are cut short when the doctor goes on to say that with the severity of his sprain, it may take him as long if not longer to fully recover versus if he had simply suffered a fracture.

With that piece of not so helpful information, the doctor exits the exam room, leaving Sam and Dean scowling at each other.

"You're an idiot," Sam huffs at his brother.

"Me?" Dean's voice rises indignantly. "How is this my fault? Not like I tried to get injured, here."

Sam casts a suspicious glance at his brother and says, "I don't know how this is your fault. But it is."

Further discussion of whose fault Dean's ankle injury may or may not be is put on hold when the doctor returns, a large black Velcro walking boot in his right hand and paperwork in his left.

"I thought you said it was a sprain!" Dean says emphatically, eyeballing the contraption the doctor's placed on the table next to him.

"Yeah," Sam says, rolling his eyes, "one as bad as a break." The _dumbass_ is implied.

"It's either this or a cast for three weeks," says the doctor when Dean tries to put up further protest.

Sam can see his brother carefully weighing the options, knows he should probably push for the cast since Dean is far from a model patient. Also knows his own life will probably be much easier if he lets Dean take the boot.

Sure enough, Dean quickly agrees to the boot, figures this way he'll be able to take the damned thing off on his own terms.

"Alright," says the doctor once he's gotten Dean's right leg snugly fitted into the boot, "this stays on for three weeks, right?" He raises an eyebrow at Dean, awaiting his patient's confirmation, then turns his attention to Sam instead. "Right?"

Sam nods, Bitch Face in place to let his brother know how seriously he'll be riding his ass on this one.

"And no walking on it until you get it checked out again. Got it?"

The boys had already explained that they were just passing through. Already have the discs with the x-ray images and information on how to get notes on today's office visit sent when they get "home".

Dean barely bites back the pout as he takes in the unwieldy contraption that encases his leg from his foot to below his knee, finally nodding and shaking the doctor's hand in reluctant thanks.

"Come on, Hopalong," Sam says, holding his hand out to help Dean to his feet once the two of them are alone in the room again. "Let's go get something to eat."

Dean slides off the exam table, holding on to Sam for balance while he gets the crutches under his arms. His ankle does feel better now that he can't really move it, but damned if he'll let Sam in on that tidbit of information. He quickly adjusts to the different way he has to hold his leg with the boot in place, crutching his way outside only to groan when he realizes he's in for yet another several weeks of not being able to drive.

()o()o()o()o()

They stop at a diner on the way out of town, both of them eager to fill their stomachs before heading towards Bobby's. Dean eases himself out of the car, balancing carefully against the Impala until he can get the crutches tucked under his armpits. He allows Sam to go ahead, merely grunts at his brother as he holds the door open for him and heads over to an empty booth, sliding in so he can stretch his right foot out a little into the aisle.

"You've gotta be freakin' kidding me," Dean mutters, trying to slide down lower in the booth, raising his menu in front of his face as their waitress approaches.

"What can I get you guys…" she trails off, tilting her head to the side and looking at Dean as if she's trying to place him. Her eyes go wide as she glimpses the crutches propped up on the wall next to him, her quick downward glance taking in the boot that's sticking out from beneath the table.

"Oh, hey!" she says, now able to place her newest customer.

Sam's eyebrows furrow as his glance bounces between his brother and the pretty blonde waitress, trying to figure out how she could possibly recognize Dean. He knows he sure doesn't recognize her and he doesn't think Dean's been out of his sight long enough to have done much in this town. He narrows his eyes, takes in his brother's shifty countenance, and gets a sneaking suspicion that she might know a little something about what Dean's been trying to keep under wraps.

"Hey, Stacy," Sam draws out, reading her name off of her nametag. He flashes his dimples at her, puppy dog eyes on full blast.

"Hey," she says, smiling back distractedly, her focus still clearly on Dean, who's busy trying to disappear through the floor of the diner. "You okay?" she asks him.

Dean gives her a strained smile, works himself back up from the slouched position that did nothing to hide him from the indignity he's pretty sure is about to unfold.

"Yeah. Fine. Thanks."

"It's a real shame, huh?" Sam asks her, his tone implying a level of concern he's not all that sure Dean deserves.

"Oh, I know," she breathes, hand jumping up to cover her bleeding heart. "I saw the whole thing. Poor guy just fell off the side of the curb."

Sam keeps his features schooled, just nods in a show of understanding as his mind races to make all the applicable connections.

"Fell off the curb, huh?" Sam asks blandly once Stacy has taken their orders and left the brothers alone again.

"I might have been otherwise occupied?" Dean replies, his tone more of a question as he avoids Sam's gaze, the wrapper of his straw holding much more interest.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Were you occupied with her?" Sam says, tilting his head towards Stacy, who's busy throwing eye flirts back at his brother from her location behind the counter.

"Maybe," he admits nonchalantly before the ends of his lips turn up into a rather devilish grin. "She's got a great ass."

Sam merely shakes his head and huffs out his exasperation at his brother. "And _**you**_ are a dumb ass."

A/N 2: I meant this to be a One Shot, but I think there might be more…


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: So glad you guys enjoyed Dean's misfortune as much as I did!

"You know Bobby's gonna love this," Sam says, still smirking hours into their car ride back to the older hunter's residence.

Dean shoots his brother a glare. "Not if you don't tell him he won't."

Sam throws a quick glance at his brother before returning his attention to the road stretching out in front of him. "You gonna make it worth my while?"

Dean gives it careful consideration, trying to balance not having Bobby find out exactly how it is that he ended up on crutches (again) with the necessary payment of Sam keeping his mouth shut.

"I'll do your laundry for the next month."

Sam shakes his head decisively and gives a snort. "No way, man. Every time you do my laundry, I end up with pink underwear."

"That's cause you're a girl," Dean retorts, the _duh_ unspoken but no less audible. He lets a smirk tease the corners of his lips before quickly schooling his features again; in truth, Dean keeps a red sock in his duffel bag for just such an occasion.

"Okay," he says when he elicits only an eye roll from Sam. "How about I make you breakfast for the next week. I'll make the pancakes you like. Even make the smiley face out of the chocolate chips."

"Shut up," Sam says, his tone and the smile breaking over his face saying quite the opposite. Sam does love Dean's pancakes – fluffy mouth-watering pillows of heaven. Not that he's ever said those words out loud. He'd be liable to get his ass kicked.

He weighs his options, Dean's pancakes against Bobby's added mocking and decides to go for the pancakes; he can always up the blackmail ante later.

()o()o()o()o()

"You need anything?"

Dean gives a start, Sam's question and accompanying shoulder shake rousing him from the nap he'd been taking tucked up against the passenger's side door of the Impala.

"What? No, I'm good," he says automatically. As his brain cells begin to wake up, he shifts around in the seat and belatedly realizes that maybe he shouldn't have had all that coffee before heading out on the road. On second thought…

Dean slowly angles himself out of his seat, careful to get his booted right leg free of the doorway before grabbing his crutches from the backseat and getting himself to his feet.

Sam merely cocks an eyebrow at him, otherwise occupied with the task of pumping gas.

"Bathroom," Dean replies succinctly.

He crutches his way inside, gets the overly large wooden key from the attendant, then makes his way around the side of the building. It's a pretty sure bet that when the bathroom requires a wooden key and separate entry way you're not in for a five-star experience.

Dean would've settled for one star.

He usually doesn't think twice about things like this, usually just considers it a necessary pit stop on the road of life. But then again he usually doesn't have to worry about keeping his balance, or what's lurking on the floor that might hop aboard his footwear. Footwear that will be sharing his bed with him while he sleeps for the next few weeks.

And of course there are puddles of questionable fluids (body or otherwise) spotting the floor of the less than tidy facility making it more like the most disgusting obstacle course ever than a simple men's bathroom.

He picks his way around the liquid pools of ick, careful to keep his crutches out of them lest they slip and send him sprawling into the cesspool brewing under his feet. He's pretty sure he could pick up an STD here with one wrong misstep.

A thought that again echoes through his head as he tries to keep his balance while letting the caffeine drain from his body, crutches holding him upright as he tries to keep his right foot out of whatever the hell that is on the ground. His downward glance to said questionable glob is sufficient to unbalance him just enough to require a tad bit of help. Which he instantly regrets as his hand makes contact with the porcelain wall in front of him.

Dean jerks his hand away, nose wrinkling instantly as he hopes the five-second rule applies to public restrooms as well.

He quickly completes his task, scours his hands as best he can given the lack of hot water or soap, and crutches quickly back to the Impala.

"Everything okay?" Sam asks, taking in the expression of repulsion on Dean's face.

"Uuuugh," he says, face scrunched in disgust. "Men are pigs. I'm gonna need to decontaminate."

Sam throws him a sideways glance and turns the key in the ignition before muttering the word "Cristo" under his breath. His brother is one of the biggest pigs he knows.

()o()o()o()o()

"What took you guys so long?" Bobby asks, throwing his front door open with a huff.

"We hit a snag," Sam says, blandly looking over at Dean, reiterating his brother's earlier phrasing while he gently tosses the bag of herbs to the older hunter.

Bobby easily catches the little bag before taking in Dean's booted foot and crutches, slides his gaze over to Sam and sees the exasperated expression on his face. "Dumbass," he mutters before letting the boys inside.

"Hey," Dean says indignantly, crutching his way through the front door. "You don't even know what happened." He throws a glance over to Sam, trying to gauge the truth of his statement. He's not quite sure he believes Sam will keep his promise, given the fact that he, himself, would have a hell of a time if their roles were reversed.

Sam just holds up his hands in a placating gesture, innocent expression on his face as he shakes his head.

"Nope," Bobby says with a snort, "but I'm sure it's applicable."

Sam can't help the smile that teases the dimples into making a brief appearance, schooling his expression again quickly when Dean throws a glare his way.

Dean hobbles over to the well-worn sofa, sinks into it and eases his right leg up next to him so he can stretch it out and get it elevated, a wince fleeting across his face as he peeks under the boot to see if if looks the same way it feels.

He'd insisted he was fine to ride shotgun next to Sam, figured it was only a couple of hours from the motel to Bobby's place. But he hadn't taken gravity into account. Because those several hours of having his leg in a non-elevated position have caused his ankle to reinflate to the point that it now more closely resembles a marshmallow than a human body part.

"You okay over there?" Bobby asks at the groan Dean lets out after having gotten visual evidence of gravity's cruel party trick.

"Fantastic," Dean mutters, disgusted at himself, and his stupid ankle, and the stupid hot blonde who started all of this in the first place. He gives a brief smirk as the image of her backside slides across his mind's eye, then glances around furtively, working the frown back onto his face.

"So anyway," Bobby says, turning back to Sam and the papers scattered over his desk, "I could use your help if you're gonna be sticking around for a couple of days."

Sam glances over to where his brother has his arm draped across his face, head reclined against the back of the couch, booted leg propped up next to him, and has a brief moment of pity for his brother's current predicament.

Which is quickly followed by the desire to mock his dumbass of a brother from here to tomorrow. But he doesn't. Because he promised.

 _This could very well kill me_ , thinks Sam.

()o()o()o()o()

"What in Sam Hell do you think you're doing?" Bobby asks, ambling into the kitchen where Dean's leaning against the counter, bowls and measuring cups lined up in a neat row with flour, eggs, milk, and a few other baking necessities scattered around in front of him.

"What?" Dean asks innocently, shrugging nonchalantly. "Can't a guy decide to make pancakes for breakfast?"

Bobby narrows his eyes at him and "Hmmmm"s under his breath, figuring there's probably more to this little picture of domesticity than a love of pancakes. The guy can barely keep himself upright for Pete's sake.

Dean's crutches are propped against the wall next to him and Bobby notices that he's using his booted right foot to help him keep his balance only, leaning rather heavily against the counter and repositioning himself with his hands and small hops on his uninjured leg.

But instead of trying to weasel any more information out of Dean, he just lets him go; figures he'll find out eventually anyway. He always does. So instead, he sets the table, gets the coffee going, and acts as a spare set of hands (and legs) for the chef.

"Hey Bobby," Dean asks distractedly, working to get the batter to the proper consistency, "where are your chocolate chips?"

"Come again?" Bobby says, sure he heard wrong.

"You heard me," Dean says, rolling his eyes at the disbelief on Bobby's face. "Chocolate chips. For the pancakes."

"Do I look like Betty Crocker to you?" Bobby asks, eyebrows disappearing under his trucker hat.

"Fine," Dean huffs, hoping that the lack of Sam's favorite smiley face garnish won't negate his promise. That kid and his loopholes – would have made a damn fine lawyer.

"Then at least go wake Sam up. Pancakes are almost ready."

"Nuh uh," Bobby says, shaking his head. "I'm not waking that boy up. Kid kicks like a wild stallion."

"Come on, man," Dean wheedles. "Those steps took me forever," he adds, referring to the staircase leading up to the second-floor bedroom he and Sam share when they stay with Bobby. "Tell him I'm making pancakes. That'll get him down here."

Bobby rolls his eyes, mumbling under his breath about taking orders from a dumbass, but he does it anyway. He's just careful to give Sam the message from across the room.

He returns several minutes later, a sleepy Sam in tow, just in time for Dean to start shoveling the finished pancakes onto plates for his brother and Bobby.

By the time he's completed his fifth batch of frying, Dean remembers why he doesn't do this more often. The lack of available kitchens notwithstanding, his brother not only kicks like a horse, he eats like one too. He eyeballs the batter left in the bowl, quickly calculating that if Sam doesn't stop soon, he himself will be having cereal for breakfast.

But at least his secret would be safe.

He's not sure if it's worth missing out on the pancakes.

Luckily for Dean, Sam slides his plate away, giving a protracted moan while holding his stomach. "So full. But so good."

Dean heaves out a sigh of relief, quickly frying up the remaining pancakes for himself and handing the plate to Bobby so he can crutch his way over to the table.

"What the hell, man?" he asks, using the table and seat of the wooden kitchen chair to ease himself down. The plate at his place was holding three pancakes when he'd handed it to Bobby. It now contains one and a half.

"Don't look at me!" Bobby says, hands raised in front of himself in a defensive gesture.

"Sam," Dean growls, eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

"Wasn't me," Sam groans, "I'm gonna pop if I eat one more bite."

"Well what then?" Dean says sarcastically. "We got pancake eating ghosts here or something?"

"Or something," Bobby confirms as Rumsfeld trots across the kitchen, pancake swinging happily from his jaws, nose shiny with grease.

"Son of a bitch," Dean grumbles, unable to properly vent his frustrations now that he knows the pancake thief isn't a human or something he can shoot with a rocksalt-loaded gun.

But how exactly did Rumsfeld come to obtain Dean's pancakes? The devilish spark in Sam's otherwise hooded eyes might hold some insight. But he'll never admit it. He's going to ride Dean's secret for all its worth. And probably more.

 **TBC…**

A/N 2: Just a few gratuitous scenes of brotherly "love", snarky hunters, and Dean on crutches. Sorry (or you're welcome).


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Alright," Bobby says, spreading books and papers out on the kitchen table once the breakfast paraphernalia has been cleared away. "I think I'm dealing with a couple of ghouls."

"What makes you think that?" asks Sam, physically sorting through the information overload displayed in front of him.

"Missing persons. Body parts. Lots of 'em," Bobby says, throwing a glance between the boys. "Gnawed on."

Sam's nose wrinkles in disgust, almost smelling the decaying bodies that he knows accompanies the picture the older hunter's set, while his brother just lets out a grunt of acknowledgement.

"That what those herbs were for?" Dean asks, eyeballing the bag Bobby's absentmindedly shifting from hand to hand, ready and more than willing to add the ghouls to the list of things he's cursing for his injury.

"Yep."

"But I thought the only way to kill a ghoul was decapitation," Sam replies absently, his focus instead on the Missing Persons' information sheets Bobby's compiled.

"The herbs are for protection," Bobby says with a smirk. "Makes them not want to jump your bones, so to speak."

Dean grudgingly admits that the herbs, while still partly to blame in his injured reserve status, may hold some legitimacy after all. Dammit.

"So," he says, eager to get on with the business of ganking nasties. "When do we kill it?"

"What do you mean 'we'," retorts Bobby, his eyebrow cocked in Dean's direction. "There is a 'we'," he says, pointing between himself and Sam, "but not a 'we'," he says, gesture circling between the three of them. 'You' are staying here." He throws Dean his best "Don't even think about arguing with me on this one, boy" glare, which is returned in kind (and then some) by its recipient.

Sam merely takes in the exchange between the other two stubborn hunters, careful to keep his sigh of relief to himself. He's glad Bobby's the one who said it, although he was about ready to. They've been at Bobby's less than twenty-four hours and already Dean's itching to get back out there and "kill something".

Although right now, the most Dean is likely to kill is himself. If Sam or Bobby don't kill him first.

"Oh, come on," Dean says, trying to wheedle his way through the hard, crusty exterior of the older hunter to the soft nougaty center he knows is under there somewhere.

"Cool it, Hopalong," Bobby says blandly, having quickly taken a liking to Sam's nickname for his injured brother. "You'll be back in the game before you know it. As long as you take care of yourself. And don't do something stupid." He gives Dean a long knowing look and thinks to add, "More stupid than usual."

Dean glowers back his retort, punctuating his statement with the emphatic gesture of his right middle finger before crossing his arms and slumping dejectedly in his chair at the kitchen table.

Sam catches the set of his brother's shoulders, takes in the progressively increasing jiggling of his left leg while his booted right lies quietly elevated on a chair next to him, and wonders how long he and Bobby have until Dean resorts to stowing himself away in the weapons bag in order to join the hunt.

His bet is not nearly long enough.

()o()o()o()o()

Sam and Bobby make short work of tracking down stray leads, pulling together missing information, and generally getting themselves prepared to go out and put an end to the ghouls that have been terrorizing a neighborhood about an hour away from Bobby's place.

Dean spends the same timeframe stewing in his own juices, interjecting his continued displeasure at his circumstances, and generally making a nuisance out of himself.

Not that he's trying to sabotage Sam and Bobby's work – far from it. He wants them to get the job done and be safe doing it. He just wants to be part of the action.

Action that Bobby reminds him (on more occasions than he has fingers) he has no business attending.

Sam eyeballs the daggers Bobby's throwing his older brother's direction, weighing the need to keep Dean from being throttled by the older hunter against his own need to do said throttling, finally deciding that as frustrating as his brother is, he kind of wants to keep him around.

Just not right now.

So he makes a bargain with Dean, tells him that if he agrees to make himself scarce for the next few hours, he won't let Bobby in on why it is that Dean is taking a medical red shirt on this hunt in the first place.

Dean narrows his eyes at his scheming little brother, carefully weighing the option of trying to continue to plead his case against Sam's blabbering mouth. He knows deep down that he won't really be helpful on this case, won't be able to join them on the actual hunt while he's still on crutches, and begrudgingly agrees to let the two hunters have a little space to themselves in order to get their plans finalized.

Something all three of them regret much too soon.

()o()o()o()o()

"Dammit!" Dean shouts, throwing the wrench across the cluttered shed. "Stupid deadbolt," he mutters, putting all of his energy into trying to Jedi mind trick the rusty bolt out of its stubborn position, the engine of the old jalopy on the workbench in front of him acting as whipping boy to his general frustrations.

Frustrations that center around his having been banished to the shed behind Bobby's house several hours ago, a compromise he's annoyed he even had to entertain in the first place.

He's Dean Winchester for Pete's sake. He doesn't do sidelines.

Except that the clunky black Velcro contraption on his leg begs to differ.

And speaking of begging, his stomach lets out a little grumble of its own, reminding him that it's been a whole three hours since he last ate.

A whole three hours since he stormed out the back door in a huff and cranked up the decades-old radio, trying to drown out the doubts that had him second-guessing his willingness to give in to Sam so easily.

Three hours in which to come no closer to calm his wayward nerves about being left behind on a hunt, powerless to help.

And apparently, one hour in which Sam left him a preprogrammed "911" text message on his phone.

The previous rumbling of his stomach which prompted the check of the time on his cell phone quickly morphs into a nauseating roll as he hops over to where his crutches are leaning in the corner of the shed, hastily tucking them under his armpits before maneuvering himself back to the house as fast as his bum ankle will allow.

Which, unfortunately, isn't as fast as he'd like.

He makes note of the fact that the Impala is the only car in the driveway, alarm bells clanging over the fact that Bobby's truck is missing.

And the quiet interior of the house does nothing to allay his nerves. Quite the opposite, in fact. Because it's now quite obvious that the two hunters have, in fact, gone out on their hunt. As is the fact that they're in trouble. Unless Sam's butt called his phone by accident.

Dean doubts he's quite that lucky; especially when his calls go straight to Sam's voice mail.

The deep-seated gnawing knowledge that something bad is/was/could be happening to his brother just won't let go, and he's learned long ago to trust that little voice that connects him to Sam.

Crap.

He briefly takes stock of his situation and lack of viable options. He's certainly not going to sit around and just wring his hands. And if Sam and Bobby are in trouble, he needs to get his ass in gear. If they're fine, then they can yell at him all they want; but at least they'll be alive and yelling. As opposed to dead and silent.

He quickly scans the papers still scattered about the kitchen table, breathing a quick sigh of relief when he sees Sam's quick and dirty notations on a piece of scrap paper off to the side. He finds the address on the map lying under the mess of papers and commits both directions and address to memory before tucking the scrap paper into his jeans pocket just in case.

Precious seconds ticking off of the giant mental digital clock in his head, he hastily makes his way outside, being sure to tuck a packet of the herbs into his other pocket as he heads out the door, then roots through the Impala's trunk, assuring himself it contains any necessary equipment for saving people and hunting things, and throws his crutches in her backseat before gently easing himself behind the wheel.

He'd hoped that maybe there was some way in which he'd be able to work the pedals with the walking boot on, but no dice. He briefly considers going back inside for his other shoe, then discards the idea as too time-consuming, instead working his right foot out of its protective shell in order to drive in his sock.

Less than ideal, but better than any other alternative he could come up with. Including Sam's demise because he was distracted by a pretty girl.

So he sucks it up and deals. Tucks the gradually increasing pain down deep under umpteen layers of guilt at having let his brother talk him into giving Sam and Bobby some space.

Dean briefly hopes that Sam likes having his older brother glued to his side for the next several decades of his life. Assuming he has several decades left, that is.

By the time Dean arrives at the suspected ghoul lair (in much less under an hour, thanks to Dean's lead foot), not only is he gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his ankle, but against the bile that threatens to rise in his gorge at the thought of finding pieces of Sam and Bobby strewn about the place.

He does a slow drive by, taking in the dilapidated appearance of the house that sits several hundred feet off of the otherwise empty street. Perfect house for nefarious purposes; not a neighboring house in sight.

Dean continues down the block, makes the next right, and then turns into an overgrown alley, cringing at the wayward branches that attempt to give his car their not-so-loving embrace.

Sam's so gonna pay for this.

He stops the car far enough away so that his baby's less than stealthy approach won't be heard and gives a few quick curses as he works his now screaming ankle back into the boot, grabbing the crutches out of the back before leveraging himself to his feet and hastily collecting his necessary weapons from the trunk, tucking the silver knives and gun into the sheathes on his belt and the back of his waistband, respectively. Almost as an afterthought, he works one last sheathed silver knife down into his walking boot; because you just never know.

Despite his brain's cry to "go faster", Dean's forced into more of a "slow but steady" pace. The alley's gravel drive is uneven at best, pockmarked with potholes at worst, and Dean has to be careful with his footing given the terrain and the twilight hour that further limits his visibility while raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

He tries to suppress the thoughts of how bad of an idea this is with his limited mobility. But then considers what could be happening to Sam and Bobby if he continues to sit this one out.

And deep down, he knows he's right to be here.

A gut feeling that takes a turn for the worse when he hears a rustling from the overgrown bush to his right.

He pauses, squints his eyes to try to discern if he can see anything other than foliage, ears straining for any sounds out of the ordinary, and finds himself lying flat on his back before he can say "Sammy wears pink underwear", having had his legs swept out from beneath him by something that sure looks human but moves too fast and smells too wrong.

Dean really hopes the ghoul (or whatever the hell it is) didn't take advanced placement courses. Because another reason for being benched while injured is that the smart baddies take any weaknesses into account. And use them to their advantage.

Unfortunately for Dean, his injury in no way escaped the notice of his attacker and before he can scramble to get himself into a defensive position, he's being dragged by his right foot, cursing a blue streak while his left leg tries its best to land a kick to his captor before he passes out from the pain exploding in his injured ankle.

Which happens before he can fully play the hero, when the creature looks back at him with a malicious smile on its otherwise humanoid face and gives his ankle one final wrenching jerk.

 **TBC…**

Author's Note: Thanks to all of you wonderful reviewers and followers. I am sending you each a basket of wine and chocolates.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: Thanks for the continued encouragement and kind words – you guys are great!

"Dean."

"Dean."

"Hey. Hopalong."

The increasing insistence of the familiar gruff voice finally breaks through the blackness, rousting Dean out of the blissful realm of nothingness and back into an awareness that initially contains little more than the white-hot agony emanating from his right ankle.

He lets out a low moan, trying in vain to curl in on himself, the motion stopped initially by the fact that his hands are tied behind his back, then by the fact that he really doesn't want to move his right leg after all.

"Quiet," Bobby shushes, his own voice barely above a whisper as he tries to implore a semi-coherent Dean to put a lid on his suffering.

Dean follows orders, something he's been trained to do since before he was old enough to even understand what it meant, instead, focusing on getting his breathing under control so he can take further stock of his situation.

"Hey Bobby," he says softly in greeting after a few more moments of slow rhythmic breathing, finally able to acknowledge the fact that he's not the only one tied up at the moment.

A glance to his right shows him Bobby and Sam, tied up back to back with a large wooden beam between them, Bobby quite alert and focused on him while his brother's head lolls heavily to the side, a thin trickle of dried blood gracing the temple visible to Dean.

"Sam?" Dean says in an urgent whisper, trying to pass along the return to consciousness that was just recently his own precious gift.

"He'll be fine," Bobby answers, voice still low in a forced whisper. At Dean's disbelieving look he spares a few additional words of further explanation. "He got knocked out while we were trying to fight the ghouls. Came to just after we got tied up. Then got himself knocked out again for good measure after he almost busted loose trying to get to you when your sorry ass got dragged in."

Dean takes a few seconds to decide if he wants to argue right now about his sorry ass, figures there'll be more than enough time later (once they're out of here), instead trying to garner additional information from his conscious companion, all the while trying to work his hands loose.

"So I get why I might have ended up here," he says, flicking his glance down to his booted leg, "but what about you two. How'd that thing get the jump on you? Thought you had it all planned out."

Bobby has the grace to look a bit sheepish, and if he had a free hand it would more than likely be fiddling with the dirty trucker hat still gracing the top of his head.

"Yeah, that. Thought there were two of 'em. Sam took out one, I took off the head of the other. Turns out there's three." He gives a small shrug while his face says "what can you do?"

"Ghoul?" Dean asks, seeking verification that at least their guess at Monster of the Week was correct.

At Bobby's nod of confirmation, Dean continues to air his lingering questions. "What the hell, man? Thought those herbs were supposed to keep those things off of me."

Bobby gives a stifled grunted laugh, throwing the younger hunter a cocked eyebrow with his answer. "Well, you're still alive, ain't ya? Makes 'em not wanna eat ya. Don't keep 'em from wanting to hurt ya."

Dean rolls his eyes at the other hunter's snarky reply, taking the opportunity to gain a little more insight into their surroundings and his current predicament.

From the musty smell, the small dirty windows high on the wall allowing in a trickle of the dying daylight, and the cold cement floor under his butt, he'd guess they're currently the guests of a basement, likely in the house he was trying to infiltrate before his ankle-jacking.

And while Sam and Bobby are secured to the wooden beam in the middle of room, he himself, seems to be free. If you don't count the fact that his hands are secured behind his back with something that feels like rough rope and his legs are lashed together, likely with the same type of binding.

All in all, things could be worse.

Dean wiggles around a bit, hissing controlled breaths through gritted teeth as the motion jars his injured ankle, heart sinking just a bit when he fails to come up with any of the weapons that he'd strategically placed around his midsection. He begrudgingly gives the ghoul a mental "Kudos" for at least being that thorough while making a mental note to collect all of his weapons once they've completed the hunt.

He then remembers his last-ditch inspiration, sweat popping out along his brow at the movement it takes to confirm the remaining knife in his walking boot, the relief he feels at its comforting presence barely outweighing the nausea said motion elicits.

"Knife," Dean grunts out, "boot," he adds, nodding to his injured leg. He does a couple of quick mental calculations, unable to work out any form of self-contortionism that allows him to get the knife out of his walking boot with his own bound hands, then takes Bobby's location into account and thinks they might have a chance with that option instead.

So he steels himself, clenching his jaw tightly in anticipation of his necessary journey, using his legs to slowly inchworm his way into range of Bobby's tied hands. By the time he gets his booted right leg into position he's close to passing out again, the armpits and neckline of shirt collar soaked in a cold sweat, the waxy countenance of his face thankfully hidden by the low-light interior of the room.

"You okay?" Bobby whispers, true concern evident in his voice.

Dean gulps audibly, managing to eke out a meager nod of his head in answer.

"Alright. Stay with me now," Bobby says, making sure to catch Dean's eye before he begins the next phase in their attempt to escape.

Dean holds his gaze, repeating his barely perceptible nod as his agreement.

Bobby tries to undo the Velcro straps of the boot as quickly and as quietly as he can, doing his best not to jar Dean's ankle with his clumsy half-numb hands, breathing an audible sigh of relief when his fingers brush against the knife lying tucked up against the younger hunter's leg.

Both hunters still reflexively at the faint squeaking footfalls above their heads, eyes locking again this time with a sense of urgency, given the likelihood that the remaining ghoul will be making an appearance in the not too distant future.

Bobby renews his efforts, sending Dean a silent apology as his hurried efforts elicit a rapid intake of breath at the jostling of his ankle, pulling the knife out with a final flourish while Dean stifles his moan of distress against his own shoulder.

"Come here," Bobby whispers, beckoning Dean closer so he can cut through the bindings around the younger hunter's hands.

Dean takes a final deep breath, shoving the pain away in order to focus on the task at hand, working himself around on the floor so that Bobby can saw through the ropes holding his hands behind his back.

Bobby makes quick work of his chore, slicing through the bindings in a few swift but careful motions, freeing Dean to return the favor.

Both hunters spare only the briefest of moments to rub at their chafed wrists, Bobby taking a few extra seconds to get the full sensation back into them given the longer time he and Sam have been held captive.

"Sam," Dean says in an urgent whisper, moving himself around a bit and flicking his brother's chest in an effort to wake him up while Bobby works at breaking loose the third member of their little party.

"Hey. Sleeping Beauty," he tries again, slapping his cheek with a little more oomph.

"Quit it," Sam whines, his now free hand sluggishly working to bat his brother's hand away from his face.

"Oh thank God," Dean breathes out, dropping his head in relief when he hears his brother's slightly slurred, but very much alive, voice.

"Welcome back," Bobby adds, giving a few groans of his own as he works to straighten his arthritic joints into a standing position.

"You guys okay?" Sam asks, hand to his head as he winces at the effort it takes to put his thoughts into words.

"Yep," Bobby replies succinctly, not wanting to belabor their captivity with idle chitchat about their collective aches and pains. There's sure to be plenty of time for that in the coming weeks.

"Wait. Dean?" Sam asks, the confusion over the presence of his brother evident on his face.

All three of them freeze at the renewed squeaking now directly above them, then quickly bow their heads together in whispered conversation as they ramp up their efforts at finishing this clusterfuck of a hunt, Sam's question effectively shoved to the back burner in order to deal with more pressing matters.

"Everybody got it?" Bobby asks, eyes flicking between the two younger hunters, trying to gauge their readiness at their appointed tasks.

He gets twin nods of resolution, the brothers more than ready to get themselves out of this mess, even if their respective bodies might not be 100% up to the task.

Bobby settles himself back in his original position, Sam not yet having moved from his place against the wooden beam, while Dean scoots over to his concealed location, hidden by the shadow and the angle of the staircase.

The air in the dank basement is quiet and still, the weight of anticipation hanging heavily over the three captive hunters. The stillness allows them to easily track the squeaks as they come ever closer, pausing at the top of the stairs long enough for them to give almost imperceptible nods to each other before they hear the door open.

Dean shrinks back against the staircase as the squeaks descend the stairs, unable to get a look at their captor until it's at the bottom of the stairs.

He catches a glimpse of the same thing that took great pleasure in dragging across the yard, and if he didn't know he was in the presence of something not human, he's not sure he would ever think twice if he passed this guy on the street. Looks like every other suburbia dad – button-down dress shirt, khaki pants, loafers; looks like the creature's even wearing bifocals. If he didn't know any better, he'd probably ask the guy if he knew where the nearest coffee shop was.

Dean can see the smirk on the ghoul's face as he sees his two initial captives, just as he can see the quick flicker of uncertainty as he figures out that the third and final member of the party is not where he left him. He makes a move over towards Dean's last known location, coming within range of Sam, who quickly coils himself and kicks out at the ghoul, launching him towards the corner where his older brother now lies in wait.

Bobby lets a ghost of a smile cross his face as his suspicion is confirmed - even with reflexes slightly dulled by a head injury, Sam still kicks like a wild stallion.

And despite his bum ankle, Dean's more than ready to put this sucker down, taking only a few quick seconds to wrestle the ghoul into a position of submission, allowing Bobby to take its head off with a couple of swift hacking blows from the silver knife from Dean's boot.

"Whew," Bobby says cheerfully, rolling his shoulders and his neck, "that felt good."

And while Dean agrees that it feels good to have the hunt completed, his body's protesting the manner in which they did it. He can practically hear his ankle screaming at him. It sounds a lot like "What the fuck, man?"

He rolls himself off of the now headless body, curls his right leg into his body and clasps his hands tightly around his still-booted ankle, eyes clamped shut while he tries to ride out the waves of pain threatening to eject any and all contents of his stomach.

"You okay down there?" Bobby asks, warily eyeballing the curled lump of hunter on the floor.

"Yeah," Dean pants. "I'm good."

"Yeah, look's like it," Bobby says, eyebrow raised, facial expression saying the complete opposite.

"Go help Sam," Dean grinds out, waving away the older hunter's outstretched hand.

Bobby just rolls his eyes at yet another instance of the brothers taking better care of each other than they do themselves, then turns his attention to where Sam's now looking more like a newborn foal than a full-grown stallion.

"Easy there, big guy," he says, reaching out a steadying arm to the wobbly younger Winchester. "How's the head?"

"Okay I guess. At least I still have one," Sam replies, glancing down at the decapitated corpse next to his brother while he holds his own head in an effort to keep his brains from leaking out.

"Dean?" he says, not failing to notice the form of his brother still curled up on the ground.

"Yep. Go on up with Bobby. I'm right behind you," Dean replies, his words as much a reassurance to Sam as an optimistic directive to his body.

He watches as Bobby follows a most definitely concussed Sam, hand hovering at the ready in case the younger Winchester attempts to take the fast track back to the bottom of the stairs. Although should that happen, it's more than likely the both of them would end up in a tangled heap of hurt, Sam's Sasquatch body being no match for the older hunter both in size and muscle.

Dean breaths a sigh of relief when they reach the top of the stairs without anything other than a few groans from Sam, finally working himself into position to attempt the same mundane task while Bobby's still occupied with his brother.

It quickly becomes apparent that his right leg is now no kind of help to him whatsoever, and he settles for bracing himself against the wall on his left while his right uses a white-knuckled grip on the railing to help leverage himself up the rickety set of stairs, doing his best not to throw up, pass out, or something else Bobby won't let him live down each time his injured limb makes even fleeting contact with the steps.

When he finally reaches the top of the steps, he props himself against the doorway, left leg and both arms a quivering mess from their impromptu workouts while he eyeballs the length off the kitchen that separates him from the freedom of the great outdoors.

"Dammit, boy!" Bobby says, entering the kitchen from another interior doorway, having just completed a sweep of the house to ensure they are, in fact, ghoul-free. "Can't you just sit tight and wait for help?" he asks with a shake of his head, already knowing the answer to that rhetorical question.

"If you wanna get all touchy feely, old man," he says, his eye roll accompanied by a tired smirk, "then make yourself useful. Tell you what," he continues, shifting himself against the doorframe with a grimace, "I'll let you help me out of here if you get the weapons Mr. No Head down there confiscated from me. Should be a couple more knives and my gun around here somewhere."

"Oh, you mean the ones laying in there on the coffee table?" Bobby says blandly. "Yeah, got 'em right here," he adds, shaking his duffel bag in Dean's direction. He gives Dean a hard look, thinks the kid must be hurting pretty badly to make the kind of cheap-ass bargain he did, and tries to work out a way to get both dinged-up Winchesters back to his place in one piece (or as close to it as is currently possible).

"Alright, let's get out of here Hopalong," Bobby says, positioning himself alongside of the younger hunter, who begrudgingly throws an arm around his shoulder, resigned to the fact that without Bobby's help, it's a hell of a long way back to his car. Which he's pretty sure he has no chance of being able to drive.

They slowly make their way outside, meeting up with Sam in the same spot on the yard Bobby had deposited him before going back into the house, although looking more alert than when Dean had last seen his little brother.

He clambers carefully to his feet, wincing as the change in altitude squeezes his brain cells, before giving his brother a thorough once-over.

"You okay?" Sam asks, his gaze sliding over to Bobby, figuring he's the more likely of the two to let him know how his pig-headed brother is really doing.

"Yep. Fantastic. Never better," Dean says, each lie punctuated with a hobbling step aided heavily by Bobby.

"Sam," says Bobby, the air of exasperation evident in his voice, "get on the other side of your jackass brother and let's see if we can get back to the car before I die of old age."

"Thanks Bitch," Dean says, slinging his free arm Sam's shoulder.

"No problem Jerk."

 **TBC…**

Author's Note: Hope it's continuing to tickle your fancy! (Let me know if it is!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: And for our final course…

"How's it feel?" Bobby asks, nodding his chin towards the booted leg Dean has elevated beside him on the ratty sofa of the older hunter's living room.

"Awesome," Dean replies in a tone that implies he's anything but. "How's Sam?"

Bobby hooks his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, giving the younger hunter a thorough once-over, not liking his pasty coloration and all-too frequent barely-concealed grimaces of pain. "He's fine. Got him tucked into bed upstairs. Had to practically knock him out again to get him to stay up there." Bobby smiles a little at the verbal wrestling match that had ensued, Sam arguing up down and sideways that he was fine, all the while still confused about how his older brother got to the basement in the first place, Dean's arrival and his second blow to the head nowhere on his scrambled radar.

Bobby wonders if he'll get a similar performance from the Winchester in front of him, thinks the chances are pretty good, and mentally calculates if he has enough liquor stockpiled in his house to get him through the rest of the brothers' convalescence.

Not likely.

"Think maybe you ought to take a look under the hood? See how bad it is?" Bobby asks, eyeballing Dean's injured leg.

"Damn Bobby," Dean says with a forced smirk, "didn't know you thought about what I looked like under my hood."

"Shut up you Idjit," Bobby says, plopping himself down next to Dean's boot in a passive-aggressive show of retribution, raising his eyebrow blandly when the younger hunter braces himself and lets out a stilted hiss at the jarring motion.

"Fine, fine," Dean mutters, shifting his position to ward off Bobby's hands as they threaten to help him with the task of revealing the ghouls' handiwork. He makes short work of getting the Velcro straps undone, biting his bottom lip in concentration and distraction as he carefully slides his much-abused ankle out of its protective barrier.

"Shit," he breathes, eyes widening at the sight before him. At least it looks as good as it feels. Which really isn't saying much.

His ankle now more closely resembles the Stay Puft Marshamallow Man (bigger and angrier than ever), although with more of a purplish hue, and he finds it rather disconcerting that he can easily measure his heart rate by the throbbing emanating from his lower leg.

"Shit," Dean reiterates, eyes flicking over to catch Bobby's concerned look. "I think I might have pissed it off."

Bobby snorts and mumbles, "Tell it to join the club."

"Hey!" Dean protests, taking offense at Bobby's mumbled statement. "What kind of thanks is that? Did I or did I not just save your assess?"

Bobby narrows his gaze, trying to figure out if the older Winchester is also suffering from a head injury.

"Oh, shut up," Dean huffs out, well aware of the fact that he himself may also have been in need of some saving. "Well, get it over with," he continues, "I know you're just dying to feel me up."

"Yeah," Bobby says with a bland expression. "Nothing better than examining a sweaty foot attached to a hairy man leg. Really gets my motor running."

Dean just rolls his eyes, grateful for at least that little bit of deflection before Bobby's fingers start their probing. A process he's able to complete while remaining fully conscious through sheer determination and a little help from AC/DC. "Highway to Hell" has never been such an accurate description.

In truth, he knows that he's probably going to need another set of xrays after the additional abuse his ankle has taken, but he's hopeful that maybe if he appeases Bobby tonight, the old man will cut him some slack.

"Oh thank God," he breathes out when Bobby's fingers have finally ended their torture, sucking in a few deep breathes to make up for the shorter panting ones that had accompanied the actual exam. "So?" he asks, reluctantly interested in Bobby's assessment.

Bobby just quirks an eyebrow, gives him a look that screams "dumbass" without his lips actually saying the word. "It ain't good," he says succinctly.

"Gee, thanks for clearing that up for me," says Dean. "Here I thought I'd be able to go audition for the Rockettes in the morning." A lascivious grin creeps across his face as he gets a mental picture of the line of long-limbed scantily-clad women, pasty complexion taking on a greenish tint when he visualizes the beating his ankle would have to endure to actually carry through with his statement.

"All I meant," Bobby says with a lazy eyeroll, "is that I ain't an xray machine." Something Bobby's pretty sure the younger hunter's going to protest.

Sometimes Bobby really wonders how it is he can care so much for these boys and want to strangle them at the same time.

Bobby pushes himself to his feet, heading out to the kitchen where Dean can hear him washing his hands and rummaging around, returning shortly with a couple of beers in one hand and a bag of frozen vegetables in the other.

Dean's quick reflexes keep the bag of peas from hitting him in the face, plucking it neatly out of the air and molding it around his swollen ankle instead, a grimace plastered on his face as he does so.

"Remind me never to eat frozen vegetables at your place," he says, a weak frown doing a poor job of masking his discomfort.

"When was the last time you even ate a vegetable?" Bobby retorts. "Ketchup don't count," he adds quickly.

Dean closes his mouth to contain the answer Bobby just nullified, instead returning his attention to his bum leg and how he got into this whole mess in the first place. Stupid libido.

"Was she worth it?"

"What?" Dean asked, startled and more than a little spooked to think that Bobby might have some kind of freaky psychic powers, first with the ketchup insight and then in regards to the hot blonde who kicked off this whole fiasco.

"The girl," Bobby says again, slower, holding Dean's gaze while he sips his beer, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth as he sees the younger hunter's brain working furiously. "Did she have CURB appeal?" he says, placing emphasis on the words he's betting will get the best reaction.

"Dammit Sam!" Dean cries in exasperation, the implication that Sam's spilled his secret to Bobby now plain as day.

Dean lets out a huff of resignation, steeling himself for the ribbing that he fully expects to commence any minute and not let up until either he or Bobby are dead.

"Please at least tell me it was the head injury that turned him into chatty Cathy," Dean says, ready to consider giving his brother just a tad less grief over spilling the beans if his confession was injury-induced.

"Nope!" Bobby chirps cheerfully. "Kid sang like a canary on the truck ride to the hunt. Don't know how he even managed to keep it from me that long," he adds with a snort. "He was practically bursting at the seams."

Dean pouts at the picture Bobby's painted: Sam Winchester. The swiss cheese of secrets.

()o()o()o()o()

"How's your head?" Dean asks, eyes raking over his younger brother as he makes his first appearance of the day.

"Okay I think," Sam says, squinting at the bright late-morning sunshine streaming through the slightly grimy windows of Bobby's kitchen. "I'll live." Although right now, he's not quite sure that statement is all it's cracked up to be, what with the jackhammering and general commotion taking place in his aching brain.

"How's the ankle?" he asks, nodding to Dean's propped up leg, trying to deflect any further inquiries away from himself while genuinely trying to figure out just how bad off his brother is. Although what with Dean's general denial, big brother status, and overall hero complex, he's more likely to figure out the final digits of Pi than to get an honest answer about his brother's health.

"Fantastic," Dean says, the sarcasm in his voice evident. "I was just about to go audition for the Rockettes."

Sam catches Bobby's eyeroll and huff of annoyance, figuring he missed something but unable to put enough nonpainful thoughts together to inquire further.

In truth, Dean's ankle feels pretty much like it did yesterday – angry, obnoxious, and generally making his life hell.

Bobby had dragged him to the nearest medical facility at the butt-crack of dawn while Sam was still dead to the world, threatening to beat him even more senseless than he already was if he didn't get that "damned infernal ankle of yours looked at".

The consternation by the staff in the ER about how exactly it was that he needed to be seen again for a previous injury was explained away by Bobby's "My nephew is an idiot." The fact that he was a male idiot "with too much testosterone and not enough brains" appeased the entirety of Dean's caregivers, with the added bonus of allowing Bobby to express himself freely on the subject of Dean's level of idiocy to any and all available ears.

And while the xrays were again negative for any fractures, the additional insults to his ankle added another several weeks of crutches and booted immobilization to the initial estimate of three. With the added possibility of surgery looming over his head if his ligaments don't play nicely and heal like they're supposed to.

So yeah, he's fantastic.

"Hey. You found your crutches," Sam says, pointing out the obvious aluminum objects propped up next to his older brother while trying to make a mental note to ask Bobby more about Dean later.

"Yeah genius. You were there."

Apparently, in addition to being incapable of keeping a secret, Sam's brain is also still swiss cheese in the memory department as well.

The three hunters had made their way out of the house after the hunt the previous night, coming across Dean's crutches where they had fallen during the take-down by the ghoul, not too far from the Impala. A brief argument had ensued about who was fit to drive (Bobby being the only one of the three who would've actually passed both the mental and physical portions of a driving test), and after much huffing and exasperated name-calling, they began their drive home, Bobby reassuring Sam that they'll return for his truck once Sam's head in no longer in danger of imploding.

"Thanks by the way," Dean says, cocking an eyebrow towards his younger brother.

Sam gets the feeling that his brother's phrase has quite the opposite meaning, and he tries to clear the cobwebs in his brain enough to figure out the meaning behind his words.

"Secrets, Sam," Dean clarifies when Sam just continues to sit there with a blank look on his face. "Blackmail. Any of this ringing a bell?"

Sam briefly considers playing the concussion card, telling his brother that he has no clue what he's referring to, but can't quite bite back the smile that brings the dimples out for a few fleeting seconds.

"Dammit, Sam. We had a deal."

"Yeah," Sam says, putting as much force into his argument as his abused brain will allow, "well I guess we both suck at keeping our ends of the bargain, don't we?"

This time it's Dean's turn to stare blankly at his brother, Sam unleashing an eyeroll which he cuts short due to the lingering dizziness it causes before clarifying, "As in no walking for three weeks. Staying off your ankle. Not coming on the hunt. That ringing any bells?" he asks, throwing his brother's phrasing back at him.

"Yeah, well what did you expect me to do?" Dean answers, eyebrows furrowed in exasperation. "Just sit on my ass while you guys are missing?"

"Alright, alright," Bobby interjects, the thought that he's definitely going to need more liquor now firmly cemented in his head. "Let's just agree that you're an idiot," he says pointing to Dean, "and you're a blabber mouth," he says, swinging his finger over to Sam.

"Yeah?" says Dean, eyes narrowed in challenge at the grizzled hunter. "Then what does that make you?"

"Not nearly drunk enough to put up with you two for another few weeks, that's for damn sure."

A/N 2: Thanks so much for sticking with this adventure in pain in snark! (Ooh, that sounds like a good title for a future story…) I appreciate all of your comments, feedback, and general encouragement to keep on keeping on.


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